


Passionate bright young things

by Petra



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But there's nothing to be sure of here, except that he's got Sam pinned to the bed and one hand full of his spunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passionate bright young things

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in or around 1985. Absolutely not in any way set in [](http://lozenger8.livejournal.com/profile)[**lozenger8**](http://lozenger8.livejournal.com/)'s [Changes universe](http://lozenger8.livejournal.com/tag/the%20changes%20series). Involves a big ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff and no justification whatsoever.

When Gene's got his hands down someone's pants for the first time and it's really nothing like the first time in the back of his head (and parts of the front, because if parts of the front of his head didn't know it too then the sane bits that know the law and know what's right and wrong would be shouting him down, because he's not bent-like-that-stop-sniggering anymore)--when he knows someone, he knows them, and there are a few things he can probably show them, after years of fucking, that they might not have worked out yet if they haven't had years to fuck in.

Like--like the parts about how things can hurt, and that's not--bad. In the right way, in the right time, which maybe took a few punch-ups and some stammered, fat-lipped, hammered conversations to work out, long enough ago and far enough away that Gene had mostly forgotten talking about it, till he was holding onto every last scrap because it made two in the morning warmer, having those memories.

And it's one thing to do that, see that reflected back in someone's eyes who says "Please" and "No, like this--" and expects it all, but--habits. Some things get to be habits, and then Gene does them--and then he's got this boy making this noise like he's killing him by making him come.

Well, he's doing the second one, anyway. And a few seconds later it's clear Sam's survived the experience, and he's stammering, trying to get that quick adolescent-acid tongue under his command again to say, "What the bloody hell was that?"

Which if Gene had words, he might've thought of them beforehand. Might've thought to ask, before habit kicked in, but asking wasn't part of the habit. Not when he was sure.

But there's nothing to be sure of here, except that he's got Sam pinned to the bed and one hand full of his spunk. "It was all right, yeah?"

A million expressions--someone told him that once--people can do so many things with their faces. Not that he's sure his works that way, but Sam's--it's like he's missed every last one of Sam's expressions. Sam's practicing as many as he can think of till he lands on one that's a lie, self-assured little bastard, when a breath before he was as confused as Gene is. "It was fine," he said. "Just--warn a bloke."

That, at least, he can work with, hold up his sticky fingers and taunt Sam with them. "You're asking me for a warning?"

He's too bloody young--looks away from Gene's hand like it's something to be ashamed of, like there was anything Gene wanted him to hold out for here. "I didn't try to tear your bleeding nipple off, did I?"

"It's still right there," Gene says, and pokes it to make him hiss. And to make him sticky, which is an excuse to lick him, to taste him, to make him groan.

"Look," he says, breathless again and pushing at Gene's shoulders, "I can take care of you. You don't have to--"

It's never been hard to pin him against a wall, a car, a bed. Nothing to him--even less, now-- and Gene doesn't have to try to knock the breath out of him to get him to shut up. "You don't have to do a bloody thing. Relax."

It's as impossible as it ever was, save on those nights when Sam was too tired to move, from work and drink and fucking all three. He rocks his hips up like that'll make Gene want to let him go. "Get off me."

"You sure about that?" And Gene won't let up yet.

It's been too bloody long since he kissed anyone, long enough that it takes till he's kissing Sam to remember her face, and her name's gone. She wasn't important, exactly. Not someone he knew, not a copper. Someone to kiss, of an evening, and then she was off again.

Sam kisses like he's not sure how yet, like getting his tongue everywhere at once is going to impress Gene.

Gene'd tell him to relax again, but Sam's about as likely to listen to that as he is to shove Gene off and tell him he only fancies birds--not a game he's ever played, then or now, though he'd maybe listen, this time, if Sam tried it on. Easier to lead by example and pretend Sam ever followed before. It slows him a bit, enough that he's not trying to get away so much as grinding his hips up.

"You want more?" is another habit, from other people as much as Sam, and Gene had forgotten how much it makes Sam scowl.

"What, you don't?" Sam asks.

He's not paying attention if he can ask that, too much blood going south and no bloody practice with boys.

Gene's not asking. Whatever Sam said, Gene wouldn't believe him like this. Even if he hasn't, he'd say he has, brash and confident as ever till things go to shit.

"I'm old enough to be patient," and old enough to know better, to walk away from this kid who's making that face at him like he can't believe Gene's as stupid as all that.

He'll not grow out of it. It's too familiar for that to be true. "You must want--" and Sam reaches for him, like Gene's as much a fool for his own prick as Sam is for his.

Habit to catch his wrist--not from fucking, that one, but from too many fights--and push it over his head. "I told you, I'm fine."

It should be--it should be something, the way his eyes go wide. Should make Gene want to look after him, or want to let him up.

Shouldn't, shouldn't make Gene want to fuck him, but there it is.

Sam shouldn't be able to read Gene--doesn't know him, not really, not the least bit so well as Gene knows him--but he's not scared. Should be scared. Everybody's scared of the Gene Genie, if they've a grain of sense, but Sam's grinning at him. "Toss me off again, then, and get on home," he says, as if he's the one in charge here.

He is. Not that Gene'd tell him so in words, but one whisper from him of not wanting this and it's done, because the second he raises a fuss--he's a boy, and for all he's as cocky a prick as he's ever been, it'd be too easy to break him. "Is that all you want?" Gene asks, not giving in, not yet, because it's not midnight, because there's time and more time, and Sam's young enough to get nearly everything he wants and let Gene have his, too.

The way his eyes narrow when he's thinking--the way he puts things together--Gene'd never say to anyone he missed that as much as the sex, but no one will ever think to ask, so it's all right. "What would you say no to?" Sam asks.

Gene doesn't tell him that's the question Gene should be asking him, here. It's enough if one of them is sure what the rules are, and for now--if Sam can't ask for something, Gene's not going to put the thought in his head. He's done enough damage--no, Sam was like this, he was always going to be like this--Gene didn't make him anything, didn’t make him want to kiss men, didn't teach him to gasp like that at a twinge. Sam could have ignored him, told him off for it, smacked his hand away.

But he'll have to ask for the rest, at least until Gene's tired of waiting for his clever mind to come up with whatever it is he wants. "Try me."

He licks his lower lip for a bare second, hardly enough to make Gene want to kiss him if he didn't want to kiss him from now till the end of the night--it's a constant, it's a whole-body ache, and he'd be doing it right now if he didn't need to hear Sam. If he didn't know Sam'd think he was a soppy old fool for it, too soft to be interesting.

Sam's never liked it soft, and there's nothing gentle about the way Gene wants to kiss him, but Gene doesn't trust him to know the difference yet.

If there's a next time, Gene'll show him then, get all the words out of him early and kiss him till they're both drunk on the taste of each other's mouths. It's been too bloody long.

Now--Sam says, "Suck me," like it's the most daring thing he can think of to say, like Gene would want to say no to it if Sam didn't taunt him, didn't raise his eyebrows while Gene takes a breath and takes a moment, not reacting, not frightening him off.

"Is that all?" Easy enough to make it sound like nothing, for all he wants it.

"To start," Sam says, and how it's possible to miss the angle of someone's chin when he's so full of himself Gene'd swear there were two of him--like it's possible to miss the taste of him--off a bit, because whatever prissy things he used to cook with, he's not making his own dinners yet, not this boy.

That gasping, startled noise, that's new, or very old--new, he's nearly sure of it, because Gene had startled him now and again, but Sam's not startled at him. He's startled at himself.

Gene would have to let Sam go to swear at him for not giving him fair warning he's never done this before, and it's not worth a row right now. If it'd get him anything but red-faced Sam swearing he'd had someone or other, he'd call him on it, make him tell the truth. But Sam wouldn't.

Gene trusts him that far, at least, to know he'd lie till Gene gave up and started again. Not that he'd be patient--he's as patient as Sam is, with his hips bucking up already and one hand stuffed into his mouth to keep himself quiet. He learned better than that, somewhere. If they're going to keep at this, he'll have to learn it again.

"Christ," Sam says, and Gene's not had him in his mouth more than two minutes at the outside, no matter how fast his breathing's coming. Bloody kids and their bloody ridiculous sex drives.

Gene'd tell him to get hold of himself, but it's not what either of them wants right now. Gene wants him just like this--maybe for a minute longer, till that jerk of his hips goes to a proper thrust, till he has an excuse to hold Sam down--but this is how mad Gene wants to see him. There are better ways to keep a lover--sweet names, courting presents, being a bloody partner--he knows all the words, but this is the bit he's good at and he's not backing off on it.

Not even when Sam thumps him on the shoulder and says, "I'm coming, fuck, enough--" because it's not enough, not till he does, gasping another word as he crumples in on himself and shakes for Gene.

Gene wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he would after a swig of whisky and sits up, waiting for Sam to pull himself together. He's flushed, his hand over his face like Gene's not supposed to see what he's done to him, and Gene can see when he realizes how naked he is.

He takes a breath, long and measured, and laughs. "That was--" he gives Gene a look, not as wry as he wants it to be, something vulnerable in his eyes again like still Gene's holding him down, only this time he believes it. "Thanks."

There doesn't exist a time when Gene will ask him to talk more, or if it exists, it hasn't come yet, or if it has, he's not admitting it. There are words Gene wants out of him, things Sam's going to have to ask for of his own deviant free will, and Gene's not suggesting any of them, but the only way to keep from saying them, now, is to kiss him.

God willing Sam doesn't notice he's half on top of him, or if he notices he doesn't think anything of it. Maybe Gene can get him thinking it's what men do with each other, if he's really never done this--a blowjob, then a kiss and a coddle. There are worse things to teach someone.

"Doesn't matter," Gene says, and he makes himself a liar with every last syllable.

Sam snorts and shakes his head, believing him as much as he believes himself. Which is reassuring, in its way, that he knows Gene's got things on his mind. He can't know what they all are. Some of them--he's a bright boy, and he's got to know a thing or two about fucking--but not the hard ones, not the ones he's not asking for. "So I'm meant to ask you, and you're not going to say anything back?"

"Toss me off. I'm sure you've had loads of practice at that."

It's a dare, and Sam takes it the way he always has, giving Gene a smack on his side. "Roll on your back and get your pants down. I'm not Charles bloody Atlas, I can't be hauling you around."

He'd look a right fool if he tried, a lad his size, and there's no call for him to bother when Gene'd do nearly anything he said, and it's only nearly because he hasn't worked out what Sam might say that he'd deny him yet. "Might work up those scrawny arms of yours if you tried."

Sam can still punch well enough to wind Gene, he's sure of it, but he doesn't this time. Sam pulls it and gives him a look that says he's getting Gene's measure. He doesn't know how wrong he is about that. "You like it to hurt, do you?"

"Not so much as you do," which might be telling, but the twist in Sam's mouth says he knows Gene's worked that out. If he doesn't know when Gene finally started to understand him, so much the better, and he's not got anything like enough information to suspect the truth.

That leaves Sam thinking Gene's sized him up in an evening, worried out all his little kinks and twists, or at least the biggest one. There are worse things than having him in awe for a while. Not like to last, and Gene won't admit a thing. "Then you won't want quite what you gave me?" Sam asks. "Hardly fair, is it?"

"What's fair?" It's hard not to roll him over and rut against him for the few seconds it would take, with him frowning like that, with the taste of him heavy in Gene's mouth and the way Sam would wriggle under him. But it's worth it, or it will be. "If I gave you everything I liked and you didn't like it, what good would that do anyone?"

That gets Sam focused again, or admitting he's focused. He's been focused all along, the little bastard--and he's always been good at that, apparently. "So what would you do, if you were me, right now?"

"Bloody hell," because it's easier to be annoyed with him than to knee his legs apart and make Sam hate him, because Gene's not got half enough patience just now to take his time and make him want it. That's a lesson Sam never needed to teach him, for all the careful tricks Gene learned from him. "I told you to toss me off, didn't I?"

His hands, his slim, swift hands that don't feel a thing like Gene's and never did and never will--he's pretended his fingers were Sam's enough times he could almost have forgotten the differences if he hadn't held onto them so tight. "It's not what you'd do, is it?" Sam asks, and he's playing at being shy. There's a smile round the corner of his mouth that gives it the lie.

Gene's never met a worse liar than Sam Tyler, and he's met enough folk who tried it on him. "Might be," he says.

Another time Gene will dare him, when he thinks there might be another time.

This time Sam dares himself to lean down, lick at him with one quick sweep of his tongue that's near enough to undo him faster than Gene took him apart. It knocks the breath out of Gene.

Sam makes a face like he's trying to work out whether there's enough bloody spice in his curry, tumeric or cumin or some such bollocks. "You don't mind, do you?"

Gene has to clear his throat to be able to say anything. "Make yourself at home," and he bites back a word at the end of that sentence without being sure what it is. Whatever it is, it's not Sam's name, and it's too near all the truths that would break this moment to be safe.

Sam's shit at pretending he's done this before, though he makes a good go of it, and Gene might not know if he didn't know what Sam's capable of. This is more than good enough, between his hand and his teasing tongue, and it's near impossible to hold bloody still through it.

Worth the effort, though, so as not to frighten him off, a lad like that--capable of the kinds of things he might be, one day--and it's the then and the now together that make Gene bite his tongue, the careful teasing with the rhythm that falters when he needs a breath and the memory of how Sam would swallow Gene down and look up with his mouth filthy like he was sorry they were done.

"Enough, stop," Gene says, barely a moment too soon, giving him a push instead of a choice because he's set a bad example there and he doesn't need Sam trying to do everything at once.

Sam looks hurt, confused--he's a bloody idiot, and he's a bloody innocent, and what the hell is Gene doing--and he says, "Why?" as if he can't tell.

It's too hard a question, and he's too far away. "Kiss me," Gene says, sharp as any order he's ever given Sam.

He hops to it like he never would have if it mattered, and settles in beside Gene, getting a hand on him again. Gene barely needs the touch, and it's a good thing Sam's got his tongue in Gene's mouth when he comes, because the things he might call Sam are queuing up to be said and none of them are allowed yet.

Sam looks less worried when Gene opens his eyes again, but he asks--he does ask, did ask, inveterate bloody worrier--"It was all right?"

Gene kisses him again to shut him up, in case that trick's started working, and Sam nips at his lower lip, bolder now that he thinks he knows Gene's measure. "Come on," he says.

It's tempting to tell him it was all right, something as blithe and off-hand as Sam's been trying to be, but those lies won't come. Much more time around him and Gene will be as pathetic as he is at spinning a tale. "It was good, yeah."

Sam's smile makes it better, bright and broad, but then he glances at the clock. "I'd best be getting home."

The ache's coming back as sure as if it never left. "Best have a wash first," Gene says, and keeps himself from pinning Sam down again.

He nods once, then gives him a sideways look. "Have to do this again sometime."

Gene doesn't say, "Tomorrow," because he's a grown bloody man and he will not beg for every spare moment Sam's got.

What he will do--if Sam will let him--is give him all the sex he can take and get him to come begging for more. "When I've a spare minute," Gene says, trying to make things easy. "Won't take you much longer than that."

He goes pink as a girl playing in her mum's rouge. "Sorry," he says.

Not what he's meant to say at all, but when Gene kisses him, he takes it, goes with it till he's making a soft noise against Gene's mouth. "Use it while you've got it. We've time for one more before you're off."

"God--" Sam says, but he's got his arms round Gene like he doesn't realize he's hugging him. Gene counts that as a point in his favor.

  
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